―And," Lord Vickers said with pride, ―every one of them was born healthy and strong." He lifted his glass in a silent toast to his eldest daughter, the fecund Frances Vickers Winslow, who, Annabel could not help but recall, he usually referred to as That Fool who married That Damned Fool.
Lord Vickers had not been pleased when his daughter had married a country gentleman of limited means. As far as Annabel knew, he had never revised that opinion.
Louisa‘s mother, on the other hand, had wed the younger son of the Duke of Fenniwick a mere three months before the elder son of the Duke of Fenniwick had taken a stupid jump on an ill-trained stallion and broken his noble neck. It had been, in the words of Lord Vickers, ―Damned good timing."
For Louisa‘s mother, that was; not for the dead heir. Or the horse.
It was not surprising that Annabel and Louisa had crossed paths only rarely before this spring.
The Winslows, with their copious progeny squeezed into a too-small house, had little in common with the McCanns, who, when they weren‘t in residence at their palatial London mansion, made their home in an ancient castle just over the Scottish border.
―Annabel‘s father was one of ten," Lord Vickers said.
Annabel turned her head to look at him more carefully. It was the closest her grandfather had ever come to an actual compliment toward her father, God rest his soul.
―Really?" Lord Newbury asked, looking at Annabel with glintier eyes than ever. Annabel sucked in her lips, clasped her hands together in her lap, and wondered what she might do to give off the air of being infertile.
―And of course we have seven," Lord Vickers said, waving his hand through the air in the modest way men do when they are really not being modest at all.
―Didn‘t stay out of Lady Vickers‘s way all the time, then," Lord Newbury chortled.
Annabel swallowed. When Newbury chortled, or really, when he moved in any way, his jowls seemed to flap and jiggle. It was an awful sight, reminiscent of that calf-foot jelly the housekeeper used to force on her when she was ill. Truly, enough to put a young lady off her food.
She tried to determine how long one would have to go without nutrients to significantly reduce the size of one‘s hips, preferably to a width deemed unacceptable for childbearing.
―Think about it," Lord Vickers said, giving his old friend a genial slap on the back.
―Oh, I‘m thinking," Lord Newbury said. He turned toward Annabel, his pale blue eyes alight with interest. ―I am definitely thinking."
―Thinking is overrated," announced Lady Vickers. She lifted a glass of sherry in salute to no one in particular and drank it.
―Forgot you were there, Margaret," Lord Newbury said.
―I never forget," grumbled Lord Vickers.
―I speak of gentlemen, of course," Lady Vickers said, holding out her glass to whichever gentleman might reach it first to refill. ―A lady must always be thinking."
―That‘s where we disagree," said Newbury. ―My own Margaret kept her thoughts to herself. We had a splendid union."
―Stayed out of your way, did she?" Lord Vickers said.
―As I said, it was a splendid union."
Annabel looked at Louisa, sitting so properly in the chair next to her. Her cousin was a wisp of a thing, with slender shoulders, light brown hair and eyes of the palest green. Annabel always thought she looked like a bit of a monster next to her. Her own hair was dark and wavy, her skin the sort that would tan if she allowed herself too much time in the sun, and her figure had been attracting unwanted attention since her twelfth summer.
But never—never—had attentions been any less wanted than they were right now, with Lord Newbury staring at her like a sugared treat.
Annabel sat quietly, trying to emulate Louisa and not allow any of her thoughts to show on her face. Her grandmother was forever scolding her for being too expressive. ―For the love of God,"
was a familiar refrain. ―Stop smiling as if you know something. Gentlemen don‘t want a lady who knows things. Not as a wife, anyway."
At this point Lady Vickers usually took a drink and added, ―You can know lots of things after you‘re married. Preferably with a gentleman other than your husband."
If Annabel hadn‘t known things before, she certainly did now. Like the fact that at least three of the Vickers offspring were probably not Vickerses. Her grandmother, Annabel was coming to realize, had, in addition to a remarkably blasphemous vocabulary, a rather fluid view on morality.
Gloucestershire was beginning to seem like a dream. Everything in London was so…shiny. Not literally, of course. In truth, everything in London was rather gray, dusted over by a thin sheen of soot and dirt. Annabel wasn‘t really sure why ―shiny" was the word that had come to mind.
Perhaps it was because nothing seemed simple. Definitely not straightforward. And maybe even a little slippery.
She found herself longing for a tall glass of milk, as if something so fresh and wholesome might restore her sense of balance. She‘d never thought herself particularly prim, and heaven knew that she was the Winslow most likely to fall asleep in church, but every day in the capital seemed to bring yet another shock, another moment that left her slack-jawed and confused.
A month she‘d been here now. A month! And still she felt as if she were tiptoeing along, never quite sure if she was doing or saying the right thing.
She hated that.
At home she was certain. She wasn‘t always right, but she was almost always certain. In London the rules were different. And worse, everyone knew everyone else. And if they didn‘t, they knew about them. It was as if all the ton shared some secret history that Annabel was not privy to.